


A Kinder Path

by orphan_account



Series: A Kinder Path 'verse [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this alternate universe, Merlin was raised among the druids and Uther died at the hands of Ygraine's vengeful wraith-brother. Arthur seeks out Emrys and destiny gets a kick start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic actually started with birds. My sister and I were out on a walk, and these birds were cawing loud enough to raise the dead (who needs a witch for necromancy?), and I told her that there were two rival bird clans having a meeting to arrange a truce. And then I started to actually picture it, only I know nothing about birds. So then I thought, what if it was only a group of men who dressed like birds? And then that turned into Merlin, his black hair all long and loose and strewn with dozens of merlin feathers, without a shirt. And so I wrote this. (I will marry the person who creates a portrait of this, by the way.)

Sunlight glints off of feathers weaved through a cascade of wild black waves over pale, pale skin, and Arthur feels the world stop, because this? This is the boy the druids speak of in hushed, reverent tones wherever they go? He is lithe and beautiful and impossibly young, a steady blue fire burning in his eyes. The new king wars with the urge to say, “You’re too young,” and, “You won’t last a day among actual men,” and then the boy’s eyes glow gold, creating an image of an intimately familiar crest in the air between them, and he distantly registers the gasps of his men behind him; this is the first instance of magic they have seen since arriving at this meeting with an envoy of druids on the outskirts of the kingdom, and he is fairly certain that each of them now waits for someone among them to cry, _“Sorcerer!”_ and charge forth, sword singing as it is brought forth from its sheath, as though these are still the days of his father’s reign and the man does not lie in state within the mausoleum, next to the body of the wraith which killed him and the wife who foolishly, fearlessly bore him a son.

He nods then, acknowledging the spell for both the compliment and the challenge it is meant to be, and asks, “Will you come with me, Emrys, son of Balinor?”

The boy tilts his head and his eyes cut over to the figure of a woman standing anxiously amidst the druid gathering, and Arthur experiences a moment of panic that the boy does not speak the same tongue, and this woman is his interpreter. But he looks back at the king and then adopts a brave, yet at the same time hesitant air. “Can my mother come with me?”

Arthur has to close his eyes for a moment, because oh how he longs for the days when he was that innocent, that naïve. And he should not be thinking the thoughts which even now register in the back of his mind about one who is clearly still so guileless, so unaware of the ways of the world. This man-child is meant to serve as his Court Sorcerer, and anything else is unlikely and entirely secondary. But he cannot fight the urge to make this enchanting creature happy. “Of course. You and your mother may have anything you need. We can have the rooms next to yours made ready for her upon our arrival in Camelot. Is there anything else which you require?” _Keep it formal. Keep it polite. Keep it aloof. Don’t ever let him know what a hold he has on you._

“… Could you call me Merlin?” And then all his carefully laid plans fall to the wayside, because how could he possibly hope to stand fast in the sight of those vulnerable, yet determined eyes? It is simple: he cannot.

He breathes a soft, “I can do that.” And he does.


	2. Bird of Prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin can take care of himself, thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows a few months after A Kinder Path, the first story in what I'm now definitely going to make into a series. And to think it all started with some birds.

The sounds of several men working to set up camp for a midday meal ring out through the little clearing and the spring air surrounds them. A light breeze stirs about cloaks and ruffles hair. As he sits upon a log, sharpening his hunting knife as a cover for a little covert observation, he hears Sir Bromel grumble to Sir Bors, “We work with little boys now? What purpose does the King’s little magician serve? He’s pretty to look at, no mistake, but then, so are plenty of the ladies of the court.”

Arthur moves to intervene, but stops when he sees a tall, slender figure move toward the place where Sir Leon has begun to attempt a fire to stew the brace of conies they caught earlier that day; what little sunlight which filters through the trees of the forest shining on the feathers which even now adorn his head. He kneels down and exchanges a few words with the kind knight and then, with a single, whispered word, sets the firewood ablaze. His actions catch the attention of Sir Bromel, and the young king finds himself torn. Should he rescue the poor lad, or let things happen as they will?

Over the few short months that the warlock and his mother have lived in Camelot, Arthur has seen glimpses of a rather wicked sense of humor and a wit sharper than any sword in tense moments during council meetings and other gatherings of the nobles at court. He suspects that there is more to Merlin than first meets the eye, but has yet to test this  theory, not wishing to discover that the young man is more delicate than he believes, causing a rift between them. The point becomes moot when Sir Bromel swoops in for the kill, the eyes of the rest of the men in their party focused upon the slight figure of Merlin, such a stark contrast with the burly, broad-shouldered mountain of a man who he now faces.

“Well, boy? What will you do when we confront the Beast? Will you sing a little song or hide behind Sir Leon’s cloak?” To the surprise of all, this  brings a small smile to the boy’s lips, and an arch to one of his eyebrows.

“Do you remember, Sir Bromel, the Gryffin which menaced your kingdom’s borders a few months back?” Sir Bromel blinks at this , visibly startled, and then nods.

“I remember, boy.” Everyone remembers that despicable creature. For several weeks it had picked off of the villagers on the outskirts of Camelot, striking terror and sorrow into the hearts of the people. His father had ordered Arthur to lead the knights to victory, but every time they tried to fell the beast, it had decimated their forces. And then, suddenly, the Gryffin had disappeared. The council had speculated that the deadly creature had simply moved on to another kingdom and then thought no more of it. But no news ever reached the kingdom, and Arthur had wondered.

“I killed it.” Arthur wonders briefly at the implacable, slightly amused tone of Merlin’s voice as he speaks of ending another creature’s life. He knows the way that the young warlock feels about hunting, has seen signs of the slight disdain he holds for those of his men who glory in it, and so he feels rather puzzled by his calm acceptance of the fact that he has done the same.

“You? What could you do against the Gryffin?” Merlin tilts his head in that considering way that he has, and the king smells trouble brewing.

“Why don’t I show you?” He lifts his right hand and creates the image of a Gryffin in between himself and the quarrelsome knight, so detailed and so deadly that it would almost seem real, but for the significantly diminished size. He then adds what must be a lance, though it glows oddly with the same blue light Arthur has seen from time to time when Merlin has done magic at court. “I took a lance, enchanted it, and then, I did this .” The lance flies at the Gryffin, piercing it straight through the heart, and the Gryffin falls, dead upon impact.

Sir Bromel’s cheeks are ashen and his eyes are fixed on the spot where, moments before, the image of the vicious creature had dissipated, taking the enchanted lance with it. At last, he looks up at Merlin, who gazes at the knight politely, apparently waiting for Sir Bromel’s next words. Rather than speak of what he has just seen, the knight swallows roughly and then turns away, calling over his shoulder, “I’m off to look for more firewood.”

No one says that they have more than enough wood for the time it will take to cook their stew and to make torches for their venture into the caves where they hope to find and kill the Questing Beast. Instead, they look at each other and acknowledge what they all know without a shadow of a doubt: their little Merlin has talons, and is more than capable of using them.   



	3. The Power of a Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur kept his word, and the dragon’s prophecy proved true. What could the beast possibly want from him this time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully we'll eventually get to see some Hunith, though she's still not in this one. I'll keep trying, I swear.

“… _Come to me_ ,” Arthur groans and rolls back over, closing his eyes once more, “ _Pendragon! Come to me!_ ” Pulling his pillow over his head does nothing, much to his groggy dismay.

Since the night following his coronation, when he went out alone, seeking something to make some sort of sense of his father's death, he has heard not a word from the imperious creature beneath the castle. So, why now? He has done everything the Great Dragon tasked him with, calling the druids back to the land, revoking the laws against magic, bringing Merlin to Camelot as his Court Sorcerer. He promised that if Arthur did all these things, the kingdom would prosper. Arthur kept his word, and the dragon’s prophecy proved true. What could the beast possibly want from him this time?

“ **Pendragon**!” Sighing resignedly, he runs a rather boneless hand through sleep-mussed hair and climbs slowly out of his cocoon. In the dark, he settles for pulling on the brown coat he wore earlier that day over his sleeping pants, in lieu of stumbling around to light a candle or the fire to locate more suitable attire. It is the dead of night; if anyone else is awake at this wretched hour, then they will be far too tired to care about the king’s state of undress, and will certainly know better than to speak of it in the morning light of the new day.

He makes the journey to the dungeons, saying a silent thanks for his wisdom in dismissing the guards to the cave entrance. The servants may not speak about his lack of propriety, but the guards could probably be persuaded to speak of his visit to the Great Dragon, for a price.

As he nears the door to the caves, he becomes aware that he is no longer alone. The soft footfalls of bare feet – feet he has heard padding across the stone floors of the castle countless times since he brought a certain young warlock to the court – come to his ears from close behind.

“You may as well give us some light, Merlin. No use in both of us bumping into walls and stubbing toes – especially you. You do _own_ a pair of boots, do you not?” Since Merlin helped to fell the Questing Beast, Arthur has felt far more at ease in the boy’s presence, making the occasional jibe and enjoying the almost guaranteed retorts.

Merlin scoffs at this latest attempt, even as his eyes glow golden and several torches flare to life, lighting their way. “Of course I own boots, _my Lord_ , what do you think, that my mother would allow my toes to fall off in winter? I simply prefer to be able to feel the magic of the world around me as much as possible.”

“… And going barefoot allows you to feel it better?” He knows he sounds both rude and skeptical, and finds that he is simply too tired to care.

“Well, yes. Magic is in everything, Sire, even in the stones beneath our feet.” Arthur absolutely does not look down to see if he can find the magic of which his warlock speaks. “According to my people, I am magic, and it helps me to stay in contact with it.” Arthur certainly understands the sentiment; he has thought more than once that Merlin is magic, though not because of the great power he possesses.

“Still, it’s the dead of night, and you must be freezing. Get over here.” He ignores the slightly scandalized look that this earns and holds his coat out to his companion, who for once has no adornments in his wild mane, though his chest is still bare and the black locks still cover the alabaster skin of his back. As Merlin reluctantly complies, Arthur raises an eyebrow. “No feathers tonight?” This earns a light snort and a careless toss of the head.

“I don’t sleep in them, _Sire_. I put them in every morning and every night I take them out.”

“Why do you wear them?” He has wondered ever since the day they met, once he managed to form coherent thoughts. Merlin has never seemed vain in any way, but to painstakingly weave in and then remove the many feathers which decorate his hair each day speaks otherwise.

“Do you remember when we first met, and you called me Emrys?” Mystified, Arthur nods. Merlin sighs.

“When I was born, my mother lived in a little village, called Ealdor. We were happy there, just the two of us, and the villagers helped my mother take care of me in any way they could. Then, bandits started to raid our homes, and the people urged my mother to take me somewhere safe. She decided to take me to the druids, because of my abilities. That was the first time either of us heard the name Emrys. For the longest time, my mother was the only one who would call me by the name she gave me at my birth. One day, she found a pinion feather from a bird who shared my name, and she put it on a piece of leather cord. She told me it would help me to remember who I was, that there was more to me than just the savior of magic users in the five kingdoms. So, I started asking the merlins and other birds of prey for their feathers – I’ve always had an affinity for animals, you see, and they were kind enough to part with a few here and there. And I’ve worn them ever since.” The young king catches Merlin unconsciously running his long fingers through dark locks, as though searching for the absent feathers.

Not quite knowing what to say, but suspecting that he should at least make the effort to say _something_ , he simply tells the boy, “Thank you for telling me.” They have reached the door to the cave now, and he opens it with slow, measured movements, not wishing to alert the night watch to their presence with unnecessary noise. King he may be, but that does not mean he wishes to explain his purpose for venturing out so late, especially considering present company. He does not want to give any cause for alarm among the people, because surely they will believe something is amiss if they discover that the king and his Court Sorcerer are out together, carrying out some secret meeting, innocent and unplanned though it happens to be.

He grabs the torch which hangs to the side of the door and ushers his companion in before him, mentally preparing himself for what is certain to be a frustrating exchange. The boy seems to sense his concern, placing a gentle hand on his now bare shoulder in a silent show of support and offering a small smile in answer to his curious glance. Together, they arrive at the edge of the ledge leading into the dragon’s domain. The large lizard swoops down before them, an amused glint in his eyes as he takes in the sight of what is clearly the king’s own coat pooling about the young warlock’s slighter frame, as well as the rather protective way that Arthur angles himself between the two magical beings. He may choose to heed the creature’s advice, but that does not mean that he trusts it any more than he trusts the kings of the neighboring realms.

“Welcome, young warlock, little Pendragon King.” Beside him, Merlin bristles, whether at his own epithet, or Arthur’s, it is difficult to say; perhaps he objects to both.

“Why have you called us both here?” He has never heard his Merlin sound so demanding, so powerful as he does now. He finds himself just a little bit in awe of the boy who he is slowly coming to see as a friend, though he will most likely keep the development a private one.

“Camelot prospers, little King, but your work is not yet done. You must unite the lands of Albion and reign in an era of peace.” There is silence for a moment before the dragon tells him, “And you, young warlock, must free me from my prison.”

“ _Me?_ Why me?” The dragon leans down, bringing his eyes on level with Merlin’s.

“We are kin, you and I. It is fitting that the son of the last dragonlord be the one to free the last of the dragons.” Merlin breathes in sharply at this, and Arthur wonders if this is the first time since that day in the forest that anyone has mentioned the boy’s father. He feels a brief stab of guilt for the pain his unintentional reminder of the father Merlin has never known must surely have caused, in spite of the months which stand between then and now. But after a short time, the warlock seems to shrug it off, and he turns to his king, his head cocked slightly, asking for permission. In answer, Arthur looks again to the Great Dragon.

“Do you swear not to harm the people of Camelot, once you are released?” The creature inclines his head, acknowledging this show of foresight.

“I swear never to harm the people of Camelot.” He still feels slightly uneasy, but he all but promised with that question that the dragon would be released, and he is a man of his word.

“Then you shall be released.” Taking it as the order Arthur intended, Merlin steps forward and says the spell to free the Great Dragon of his chains.

The majestic creature roars, and Arthur knows that there will be questions in the morning, but cannot bring himself to care as he watches one who claims to be Merlin’s kin rising from his bonds, the very image of freedom.

Before he takes off, Merlin steps forward, his arm stretched forth. “Wait! How will we find you again, if we need you?”

“Simply call my name, young warlock.” And Arthur’s mind returns to the conversation he and Merlin had prior to entering the cave. He understands now the power a name can hold, and he will not soon forget.

“But what is it, Great Dragon?” And he knows that Merlin’s thoughts travel a similar path, because the boy is nothing if not sympathetic to others, and he constantly does whatever he can to ease whatever suffering he may find, no matter how great or how small.

“You may call me Kilgharrah, and I will come.” He lowers his head in one more sign of respect and then takes off, a great winged shadow against the starry backdrop of the night sky.

After Kilgharrah has become nothing more than a tiny spot on the horizon, Arthur turns to his young companion and puts his free hand at the small of his back, guiding him back out of the cave. “Come along, Merlin. I’ll walk you to your chambers.” He expects the boy to object to this admittedly overprotective treatment, but instead he simply does as Arthur asks, lips quirked up in a small smile, expressing both his contentment with the new state of affairs and with the warm reminder of his king’s regard pressing gently against his spine.

“As you wish, my Lord.” And for once, Arthur cannot detect a hint of mockery in his title. In its place, there is only a quiet acknowledgement of their mutual affection, and he knows that he will carry this small victory with him like a talisman for weeks to come.


End file.
